


Break Room

by pseudocitrus



Category: Tokyo Ghoul
Genre: F/M, Mild Blood, Mild Smut, Shironeki - Freeform, Touken
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-13
Updated: 2014-12-13
Packaged: 2018-03-01 08:24:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2766296
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pseudocitrus/pseuds/pseudocitrus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first time is in the break room.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Break Room

**Author's Note:**

  * For [maplecat89](https://archiveofourown.org/users/maplecat89/gifts).



> \+ written for a tumblr shipping meme, prompted by maplecat89: “Dom/top? Sub/bottom? Any switches?”  
> \+ hope you like it~

The first time is in the break room — after everyone’s cleared out — after Kaneki and Touka have been left behind to take inventory and replenish ingredients for the morning crew. The tension has been building all day, on tense repetitions of too-long glances, and jagged laughter, and Touka repeatedly checking her appearance on the reflection of the espresso machine.

“Get a room already,” Nishio groans finally, quietly. “Both of you are worse than the shit Kimi eats.”

He sticks a finger in his mouth indicatively. The next time he sets his glasses down, Touka seems just as bewildered as everyone else regarding where they could have gone the instant that he looked away to rub his tired eyes. (Wow, how did they end up in the back of the milk fridge? Weird. _Weird_.)

“Well,” Kaneki says with a laugh, “we have a room now.”

They’re in the break room, and Touka stops untying her apron and stares at him. He pauses, and his face pales a little as the implication sinks in.

He’s way too nice (or something) to know what the hell to do next, so Touka places her fingers on his stiff ones, helps him finish undoing his apron. And his tie. And his vest.

“Do I need to demonstrate any more?” she whispers.

“Is this a training session?” he asks with a strangled laugh. She just looks at him, and he swallows and quickly undoes his pants himself. He stumbles back as she walks toward him, and gasps, twice. First, when his knees hit the break room couch and he falls onto it. Second, when Touka arranges herself onto him, one leg and bending onto either side of his hips.

“No,” she tells him. “Definitely not.”

:::

The second time is in the break room — after Yoshimura has pursed his lips and cleared out — after Kaneki has been left with his uniform, the exact same one he left behind. The tension has been building for the past…forever. On tense repetitions of their last interaction in her head. On jagged laughter. On Touka repeatedly apologizing to Yoriko after having stared off into space once again.

She stiffens. Her hands are poised behind her back, frozen in the process of undoing her apron. Kaneki is staring at her and she looks away, and downward.

 _“Welcome back!”_ That’s what she could say, right?

…no.

_”So NOW you fucking come back?!”_

No, no…

“Kaneki,” she murmurs, finally, at loss. “I…”

She has no idea what the hell to do next. He drops his uniform on the floor, and she almost jumps, and her heart drops out from her chest — was she mistaken, then, that he was coming back? But no, now he’s stepping over it, stepping toward her, wrapping his arms loosely around her, placing his fingers on her stiff ones. He helps her finish undoing her apron. And her tie. And her vest.

“Touka,” he says, strangled, and she gasps twice. First, when his hands rest on her waist and turn her around, with a certainty and firmness she can’t remember him having before. Second, when he pushes her onto the couch, both more strong and more gentle than ever. He kneels over her, and gazes down for an instant before placing his hands on either side of her face, bracing her as he kisses her, hard. His lips bang against her teeth, and her tongue lights with the sweetness of his blood. She can’t help a shiver at his flavor, and at the roughness of him undoing her pants and yanking one leg against him, so her bare thigh brushes a streak of his bare stomach.

He leans down. His mouth is soft and hot against her earlobe as he whispers.

“Do I need to demonstrate any more?”

“N-no,” she manages. “Definitely not.”


End file.
